


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by Dassandre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD John, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Rating May Change, Reichenbach Feels, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-12 00:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10477977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre
Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after nearly two years of destroying the strands of Moriarty's web.Another Reichenbach story ...





	1. Even to the Edge of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> I first came upon the BBC's Sherlock just a few months prior to the start of Season 3, and like so many others, I was completely taken by the series and by the dynamic between Sherlock and John. I hadn't yet found Ao3 yet, and had started publication of this story on another site. I completely forgot about it, until someone posted a comment on it a few weeks back. The poor thing had languished there for over four years, so I brought it here where maybe it can get some nurturing and love. 
> 
> Needless to say, it is entirely an AU now. Seasons three and four, Mary, Eurus, and all that came with them are not a part of this story. It is a WiP, and I have no idea exactly where it will go or how it will get there. 
> 
> Johnlock is the endgame, however. Johnlock is always my endgame.
> 
> Please let me know what you think. 
> 
>  
> 
> Beta-read by Springbok7, so any additional mistakes are all mine.

## Chapter One:  Even to the Edge of Doom

* * *

 

 

The side street into which he stepped was dark, lonely and … wet.

Bollocks!

No umbrella. Again.

He had missed the forecast, apparently. Not the first time. Unlikely to be the last.

He didn't really even watch crap telly anymore let alone anything informative.  He’d had his fill of reporters and their ilk years ago.  Amazing how tiresome they became after they follow you around for months looking for a sound bite they could twist to fit their idea of the truth.

He turned up the short collar of his coat against the increasing cascade of rain, forcing back memories of another pair of hands – fingers elegant, slender, and refined – that turned up the woolen collar of another coat, not as a barrier against the wind and water but as a shield against the obtuse, the ignorant, the mundane.

It was late. So late that he could call it early. It had taken far longer than usual for him to finish up his paperwork that night. The 24-hour surgery where he volunteered his time and skills three nights a week typically saw a great deal of traffic, but the weeks’-long wet and cold had brought with them an increase of lung infections and pneumonia to the population of Greater London; the surgery had been teeming with patients long before he had arrived. The Lead GP had also cornered him – again – all but begging him to accept the full-time, paid position that had opened up a fortnight ago. He thanked the woman for her high regard of his skill, but reminded her of all the reasons why he had turned her down the first four times: he travelled frequently and sometimes unexpectedly, he had an aged friend to care for when he was in town, he was involved with a number of charitable committees assisting military veterans, to say nothing of the small brood of nieces and nephews that he saw whenever he could.

All reasonable. All plausible.

All lies.

He doubted that Mrs. Hudson would think kindly about him referring to her as ‘aged’, the odds of Harry finding a partner who would stay with her long enough to even consider having kids made that point moot, the sum total of his involvement with the war veterans' charities was the 350 quid he had donated last New Year, and he had not left London since returning from his ‘holiday’ 18 months ago -- three weeks after he had told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back to the flat just yet.

Four weeks after his life had gone into … freefall.

He hadn't been about to explain to the young physician that the only reason he volunteered in the first place was that he was being blackmailed. That six months ago, Mycroft Holmes had threatened to stop paying rent to Mrs. Hudson – there were several loopholes in the will, apparently – unless he got "out of the bloody flat once in awhile!"

It was a form of coercion that would have been completely ineffective had he lived anywhere _other_ than 221B Baker Street; Mycroft knew it, so the prat had dragged Mrs. Hudson along for the intervention. The moment he had heard Mrs. H’s teary greeting from the doorway, he had started to submit.  Three minutes later when she was in his arms, crying into the wool of his jumper that she couldn't "bear to lose the both of you!" he had caved utterly. Arms full of weeping landlady, he had glared up at the knowing smile on the hawkish face that he sometimes despised as much as he had James Moriarty’s.

"Smug bastard!" he mouthed. It hadn't been enough that Mycroft had betrayed his brother in the worst possible way, now he had resorted to emotional extortion to manipulate those left behind.

Though later, when he was alone again, staring blindly at the empty leather chair across from him as the ghosts of things left unsaid whispered in his ear, he grudgingly acknowledged to himself that Mrs. Hudson or no, he would have given in to Mycroft's scheme, and he hated himself for that.

He _couldn't_ leave. It wasn't really home anymore, but something compelled him to stay.

Stretching his dodgy leg which ached even more of late thanks to the endless rain, he gripped the handle of his cane a bit more tightly in his gloved hand and started for the main road. Taxis would be hard to come by at this hour, and it was far too late to catch the Tube to Baker Street. It was a long walk, but it didn't really matter to him. In many ways, he had become so numb to the world around him that the pain was sometimes the only thing that reminded him he was still a part of it.

It had started up again shortly after he had returned to London, increasing to the point where he could barely put weight on his leg by the end of the day. Psychosomatic, to be sure, but as he had once been told by a dear friend, psychosomatic pain was still _real_ pain. He had tried to shake it off as he had done before, but the motivation was gone. It was foolish, he knew, this fog he had been living in. However, each time he tried to clear it away, it was only a matter of time before he realised that his heart wasn't in it.  He was just ‘going through the motions’ as the Americans liked to say.

Mrs. Hudson had produced the aluminium cane he had used when he first arrived at 221B, but he preferred the black walnut walking stick with the silver lion-head handle that had been presented to the consulting detective by the Bulgarian ambassador as a personal thank you for helping to clear up an incident of a "most delicate matter." He appreciated its durability. Its strength. Its symbolism, representing as it did all the inspiration, confidence, and wisdom that had flowed out of his life along with a pool of blood on the pavement outside of St. Bart's.

He hobbled perhaps 100 paces down the narrow street before a familiar black car pulled up to the kerb and proceeded to move slowly along next to him. He heard the near silent hum of the motor, felt its heat radiating out toward him, but he continued on his path without so much as a glance behind.

The rear window rolled down. He could hear the clicking keys of her mobile even over the pattering of the rain.

"Dr. Watson, your presence has been requested."

He ignored her.

"Dr. Watson. You know how this works." More clicking.

He kept walking.

"Dr. Wat …"

"You can tell that bloody bastard whatever you want, but I'm **not** coming!" he shouted to the rain above. "I've done what he's demanded. I'm living a life!  Shite as it is. There is no reason for him to call on me again."

The clicking stopped. The car door opened, and he heard the clip of her heels on the wet cobblestones behind him as he crossed the deserted street.

"John!"

That got his attention. He stopped and turned.

In the glare of the headlamps, Anthea stood beneath an umbrella. "It's Lestrade who's asked for you."

His laugh was bitter. "Bugger off!"

Undeterred by his uncharacteristic rudeness, she extended her hand across the great distance between them. "Please."

Well, that was a first.

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, he wiped at the rain on his face. "Greg phones. Mycroft sends _you_."

"Check your mobile."

John huffed a bit but reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out the device and turned it on. He rarely received calls anymore, and text messages were …

Well, he'd gotten in the habit of turning off the phone while at work.

And at home.

Three missed calls since 9 o'clock.

Seven missed texts. An eighth popped up as he looked at the screen.

_Get into the car, Doctor. I don't care if it's convenient or not, get your arse to The Yard. – GL_

Right.

He and Lestrade had drinks every now and again, but John hadn't been summoned to the DI's office since he was questioned about what he had witnessed at St. Bart's.

John raised his eyes to Anthea's. She nodded, turned, and opened the car door for him. The only sound in the street was that of his cane on the pavement and the rain. Leaning his head against the heated leather of the back seat as the sedan accelerated through the deserted streets of London, the words of a pair of similar texts he had received long ago flashed through his memory.

_Come at once if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

John sighed. What he wouldn't give to have even five more minutes of that inconvenience back in his life.

 

_**~~SHJW~~** _

 

The inner offices of The New Scotland Yard were nearly as deserted as the streets the car had taken to get him there. A quiet night for crime in London, apparently, John thought as he walked slowly through the sea of desks and partitions. An increasingly rare thing in an age where terrorist plots seemed to outnumber petty thefts.

The subdued lighting reflected the time of the night as did the low murmurs of conversation from the cubicles around him.  He was leaning heavily on his cane now -- the burning pain radiating from hip to toe -- maneuvering carefully through the maze to Lestrade's office lest he catch an edge here or there and fall.

John suppressed a groan as he eased into the chair Detective Inspector Lestrade offered him. He was soaked to the skin and his whole body ached. Forties are the new 20s he'd heard once. Clearly the idiot who'd said that hadn't been thorough in his research; John felt closer to 90, in mind and body.

"This had better be important," he said. "I've been up for …" blinking hard, he focused his eyes on his watch. Dear God, "… thirty-two hours, if you don't count the 40 minute lie down I had in place of lunch."

"It _is_ important," Lestrade promised. He perched on the desk corner closest to John. "We're just waiting on someone to arrive. Can I get you a cuppa to help take the chill off?"

"Lestrade, I don't want _tea_. I want to go to bed! I want my life to get back to –" John stopped himself short. The irritation that had been simmering since Anthea intercepted him was threatening to boil over completely. John took a deep breath and then another, collecting himself before speaking again "I'm sorry, Greg." I want the impossible. "Tea would be … lovely. Thank you."

"Look, John –"

"No, it's me. I'm sorry, my friend. I'm … tired." Hooking the cane around the arm of the chair, John pressed his fingers against his closed eyes before looking back wearily at the DI. "I'm just so very tired, you see."

"Of course we see, John. That's why we've brought you here."

John rose slowly from the chair, his spine stiffening soldier-straight at the sound of the nasally voice that replied. John had once asked if arch-enemies existed in real life. He had been assured that they did, and now here was his: tall, immaculate, and shameless as he oozed through side the door to Lestrade's office. Their dispute was not the result of a childish squabble, but rather one born of treachery and deceit. At least that's how John saw things.

"It's not what you think, John," Lestrade protested when John flicked his angry eyes toward his 'friend.' "Mycroft's here for a reason. A good one."

"You know where I stand on this issue," John growled.

"So do you honestly think that I'd bring him in for some petty –"

"I don't know _what_ to think!" John shouted. He slammed his hands on the wooden top of Lestrade's desk. "Not anymore! Nothing makes sense anymore." He pointed accusingly at the elder Holmes. "Mycroft gave Moriarty everything he needed to ruin him. One lie wrapped in a shroud of truth. Giving him no choice but to jump. Sher –" The name he hadn't spoken aloud in nearly two years stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and bit his lip, desperate for some measure of control, but it wasn't to be his. He was losing the battle with the anger and the fear he had kept in check for far too long. "Innocent people have died. Countless lives ruined by the choices _this man_ made, and you want me to think that there's a good reason for all of that?!"

"I told you it was war, John," Mycroft said altogether too casually. "We may not like it, but wars have casualties. I love my brother very much, but he had to jump. Lives were –"

"Had to … " John couldn't believe what was coming from Mycroft's mouth. "Had to _jump_?!" He stumbled, grasping at the edge of the desk, desperate for something solid beneath him to counter the absolute incredulity that caused his mind to swim. "God save you, you cold-blooded bastard. Love?! You know n-n-nothing about it! People fight to protect the ones they love. They don't sell them out for a couple of lines of computer code. They don't … don't make a deal with the Devil and offer up a brother as collateral for when the Devil comes to collect!" John spun toward the windows, unable to stomach the sight of Mycroft any longer.

Oh, dear God! I accused him of being a machine!

He had to fall …

He had to fall …

Had to …

Fall …

No! Nonononononononono!

At first, the painful tickling at the edge of his consciousness was the only warning John had of the attack that was taking root, but it blossomed quickly. It had been years since the last one, but he recognized the signs as though it had been yesterday.

No. Not here. Please. Not now.

John's heart pounded painfully in his chest. He couldn't breathe. His skin went cold. He sunk to the floor beside Lestrade's desk, legs unable to support him – support the _weight_ of it all – any longer.

John's mind reeled with flashes of that last conversation, and he gripped his head between his hands as each remembered phrase stabbed at his soul. The memories and the horror had him fully within their control now, and John would be forced to go along for the ride.

_We'll just have to do it like this._

_Have to do it like this._

_What's going on?_

_What's going on?_

_An apology. It's all true. I'm a fake._

_An apology … an apology …_

_Shut up!_

_Shut up!_

_Nobody could be that clever._

_Nobody … that clever …_

_You could._

_You. Could._

_I discovered everything I could to impress you. This phone call. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?_

_Impress you … It's my note …_

_When?_

_When?_

_Goodbye John._

_Goodbye … Goodbye, John_

_No! SHERLOCK!_

_Goodbye, John._

_No! No! No! No!_

_SHERLOCK!_

_Goodbye, John._

_SHERLOCK!_

_SHERLOCK!_

John's mind screamed the name over and over again.

"Jesus … no," he moaned. Pushing weakly at the hands of those that held him, he tried to reach the body of his friend. John gripped the pale wrist, its pulse fading beneath his probing fingers.

The dark, loose curls soaked through with blood. The animated hands, limp … still. Lips, ever twitching with the deduction at hand or the observation missed by the average intelligence, slack and silent. Piercing gray eyes, now flat and sightless, turned toward the leaden heavens above.

Disjointed snippets of conversation floated around him, but the riot in his mind would not allow John to make sense of them.

     Never seen one this bad before, poor sod. What do we do?

     Wait it out, I'm afraid. With his history of PTSD, it's surprising that it hasn't happened before now.

     How could you let him get to this point, Mycroft? His mind is tearing him apart.

     You'd know more about that than I do. Under the circumstances, there was only so much that I –

     Get out. GET OUT! _Now_!

"Sherlock!" The tortured whisper of his friend's name issued from John's lips again and again as he gripped his knees, tightening in on himself, desperate to avoid reliving that pain again.

It was many moments before John finally felt the comforting hand at the back of his neck. It quickly became two arms that wrapped securely around him. Their warmth gradually lured John from his tight ball of cramped limbs, and he was eased back against the body of the one who held him. His exhaustion at trying to keep the grief and dread at bay for all these long months had finally become more than John could control.

"God … no," he murmured, submitting to the never-ending tug of memories. But as they dragged him under, a soothing whisper followed him into the void, shielding him from the daggers of his own mind.

"It will be all right. I'm here, John," it said.

"I'm here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's chapter one. There are two more already written, then who knows where things will take us. Please know, however, that updates will be slow. Real life is insanely busy, and I have another WiP for another fandom that I'm obsessing over, too. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed this first instalment. Please let me know if you did. Kudos are fabulous, but comments ... well, comments are LIFE ITSELF!!!
> 
> Yes, I'm needy that way.
> 
>  
> 
> I think that there might come a point where some visual art for this might be helpful, but I can't draw my way out of a wet paper bag with a machete and a guide. If anyone feels inspired, however ...


	2. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recovers from his PTSD attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As PatPrecieux said in a comment, this story is getting us back to the Sherlock and John of series one and two. While I didn't have the issues with series three and four that some did, I do so love Sherlock and John of the first two series.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think.
> 
>  
> 
> My thanks to my beloved beta, Springbok7. I couldn't do this without her. Ever! Any continued errors are entirely mine.

##  Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken

* * *

 

 

Moment by moment, John Watson came to himself again. 

His head hurt. It wasn't a headache. It just … hurt.  As if his skull was an overfull bicycle tyre under too much pressure. It would continue feel that way for a few days, and that knowledge -- as much as the pain itself -- annoyed him. 

John opened his eyes and as he took in his surroundings, irritation turned to puzzlement. He had been in Lestrade's office when the panic attack started, yet now he was ensconced in his armchair in Baker Street. A lightweight blanket covered him; his legs were propped up on the hassock. His brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to organize the jumbled puzzle pieces of his memory. His thoughts were hazy and muted, as though someone had thrown a wet shock blanket over his consciousness.

John remembered arriving at the Yard as well as his argument with Greg and Mycroft, but after that … little made sense. Vague impressions were all that he was left with: strong arms surrounding him, lifting him from out of his terror; a nebulous flash of a cab ride, and that same, solid presence close to his side, anchoring him to what little reality he could handle; a deep, sonorous voice and a sturdy hand, supporting him up the stairs.

He had no idea how long he had been insensible, but beyond the window, London was still cloaked in darkness – dawn had not yet come – so no more than a few hours, he judged. Unless night had fallen again, and he'd missed an entire day. 

Not unheard of, unfortunately.

In the first months after Sherlock’s death, it hadn’t been uncommon for John to lose track of a day -- or more than a day -- but he hadn’t touched whisky in nearly a year.

Dropping his feet to the floor, John attempted to stand, but fell back into the deep cushions with a pained groan. Every inch of him ached from the stress the PTSD attack had clearly exerted on his muscles. Even his jaw hurt. 

Right. He'd just sit awhile longer then.

John stared at the low flames that flickered gently in the fireplace. They were the only light in the flat.  Bless Mrs. Hudson. No, that didn't seem right. He growled with frustration. His short-term memory was always shite after these things. After a moment, he had it. Mrs. Hudson had gone on holiday three days ago. Lestrade, then. Greg would have thought to light the fire.  John didn’t have so many friends anymore that he could afford to write Greg off before hearing him out.  The fact of the matter was that John doubted he would have lived through those first months after St. Barts without Greg’s support, so while he felt justified in his anger over the way Greg had set him up, John wasn’t entirely certain as to why Greg had done it or for what purpose. John would ring him up later to talk, to thank him for getting him home … and to apologize. It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to.

The problem with PTSD flashbacks – other than the intense terror of reliving the initial event, and the hypersensitive emotions that lingered afterward, and, of course, the migraine headache that typically followed, forcing him into hiding in a darkened room for two days, yeah, other than all that – was the  _ embarrassment _ of the whole thing. The nightmares he could deal with … after a fashion. John still suffered them from his time in Afghanistan, but since the Fall, his night terrors were filled with the sight of blood-soaked curls as often as they were with bombs and blown off limbs.

Flashbacks were another thing altogether – a waking horror so real, so tangible that it was impossible to determine the line between the present and the past.

He felt his blood pressure start to rise again at the thought of it all. John sucked in a deep breath and then another, consciously working to relax his shoulders, push those memories away, and ease the tension he had generated.

The physician in him understood that there was no need to be ashamed of any of this. Psychological and emotional trauma were unpredictable and far more challenging to treat than physical wounds, but they were wounds nonetheless. The soldier in him – the  _ man _ – still struggled with how he was stripped of his control and his pride, emotions laid bare for all to see.

And where his feelings for Sherlock Holmes were concerned, there were plenty of emotions to lay bare.

Grasping his cane, John pushed up out of the chair and limped to the window. It was still raining heavily, but he drew back the curtains and opened the sash anyway. The chill that blew past the panes refreshed him, sharpening his mind. With each breath, he was able to drive back just a little bit more of the emotional pain.

Years ago, before the war, before medical school even, John had attended the cinema with a young woman he had been dating at the time. He hated "chick flicks" as much as the next chap, but if going helped him get a leg over at the end of the night, he was perfectly fine with that.

In all honesty, it hadn't been that bad – the film, not the shagging.  He had read all of C.S. Lewis' books as a child, and while it might not have been a wholly accurate biography of the man's life, it was at least entertaining – far more than John’s  _ empty _ bed had been that night. While he didn't remember all of the details of the film, one of the final lines had always stuck with him for some reason.

Lewis had married late in his life, and though it was originally a marriage of convenience, the union eventually blossomed into love. His wife, Joy, however, died of cancer only a few years into their marriage, and Lewis was left bereft. Yet, as the years distanced him from the tragedy, Lewis was able to reflect on what their time together had given him rather than what her death had left him without.

" _ The pain now is part of the happiness then,"  _ Anthony Hopkins as Lewis had said. _ "That's the deal." _

John Watson hadn't fully grasped that line's meaning in his younger years.  At 18 he simply hadn't had the benefit of the wisdom that comes with life experiences.  

_ God _ did he understand it now.

Some days he wished he had never run into Stamford in the park. Never set foot in St. Bart's or Baker Street. Never followed that posh bastard to the Pink Lady's corpse. After Afghanistan, his loneliness had left him feeling numb and disoriented, but now – after Sherlock, after  _ everything _ that was Sherlock – John felt raw and exposed like abraded flesh.

John had done more, seen more,  _ lived _ more in his short time as Sherlock Holmes' friend than he had in any of his previous 40 years, but it wasn't just the lack of adventure and danger that he missed because – bollocks! – having a vest laden with Semtex strapped to his chest with a trigger happy maniac whispering in his ear was something he  _ didn't _ care to repeat, thank you very much. He wasn't that daft!

John missed being woken up half gone two in the morning by the strains of a violin played so masterfully that John wept at its beauty. He missed the days-long silences followed by even more days of manic, yet brilliant, chatter. If given the chance again, John would rush halfway across bloody England to pull a pen out of that frustrating nutter's pocket. Human heads in the fridge? Bloated rodents in the microwave? 

No. No, he couldn't say he missed those.

Quicksilver eyes that, even when closed, were always observing. The absolute joy that radiated from Sherlock when posed with a truly unique challenge. The genuine smile and infectious laugh that John knew with certainty was rarely shared with anyone but him.  Sherlock’s mind. That beautiful, amazing, frustrating, maddening, brilliant, insensitive, gorgeous mind. The deep, posh baritone that draped like midnight over every word he spoke.

The pain now is part of the happiness then.

Right. Well, I must have been bloody  _ ecstatic _ , if this is my punishment.

John rubbed his face and leaned heavily against the sill. He had told Greg that he was tired, but it was more than that. He felt hollow. He ached for what was gone, for what they had, and for what they  _ might _ have had.

John had started to re-evaluate his feelings about Sherlock shortly before Moriarty did his song and dance number with the Crown Jewels. It was part of the reason he had been so concerned about how the red tops were portraying Sherlock in the daily rags. From the first, John had been protective of Sherlock – Hell, he'd killed a man to save his life barely 24 hours after meeting the man – but somewhere along the way John had felt the need to protect not just his friend's body but his feelings as well. Sherlock would have denounced such behavior as dull sentiment and pointed out for the umpteenth time that he was beyond such petty concerns. John knew differently, however. Sherlock may not have been as overtly sentimental or demonstrative as the average stoic, but he felt things – deeply.

If his actions that night at the pool weren't telling, then certainly his last phone call with John was. The tremor in his voice. Sherlock’s insistence that John keep his eyes fixed on him. His outstretched hand, desperate for one last moment of human contact.

_ Goodbye, John. _

John sucked in a ragged breath of chilled air.   _ Oh, God, Sherlock! _

Eighteen months of introspection and more than one bottle of whiskey had led John to only one conclusion: he had been in love with Sherlock Holmes. 

He still was.

_ I'm not his date!  _

_      People will most definitely talk.  _

_           I'm not gay! _

It so didn’t matter.

Though he thought with the mind of a scientist and a soldier, John had seen far too many things in his life not to believe in reincarnation; he could only imagine what Sherlock would have had to say about  _ that _ , but it was a subject that had fascinated John from the time he was a boy, and after all his reading and all of his research over the years, John Watson had been left with the following conclusion: bodies died, but souls were reborn, and every soul had its companion. Sometimes those companions found each other from lifetime to lifetime. Sometimes they didn't. 

John had found his soul's companion, but because he was a heterosexual male – John really did  _ love _ women – he had taken too long, manufactured too many denials to listen to what his soul had been trying to tell him from the moment he and Sherlock met.

He  _ hated _ the term soulmate. It was too trite, too cliché, too  _ inadequate _ to really express the complexity of it all. It had taken too long for John to see that in this instance, gender was, as Sherlock would say, "immaterial."

Sherlock had been his kindred spirit – his bond mate – and John had failed to recognize it until it was too late. Moriarty had done far more than burn the heart out of John, he had burned his  _ soul _ out, too.

A single, strangled moan echoed softly through the empty flat, but John did not give in to his anguish. Rain and wind chilled his fingers where they continued to grip the sill, and he pressed his forehead to the icy pane of glass. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. He couldn't keep living a half-life, barely aware of the world around him. Contrary to what some of his friends might think, he wasn't suicidal … anymore, but unless he found a way out the circle of Hell his guilt and grief had consigned him to, he might well become so once more. He needed to find a way to live again.

He just didn't know how.

_ Say them, John _ . The voice in his head was  _ not _ that of his therapist. Its timbre was too deep, too like midnight.  _ Say the things that were left unsaid. It's the only logical option, so why do you insist on fighting it? _

_ I don't know if I can. _

_ Is there really a choice? You don't really want to go on as you have done, do you, John? _

_ No. _

_ I'm pleased that you finally recognize that.  Maybe there’s hope for you, after all. _

_ Bugger off, you prat! _

John pressed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and took a deep breath. It was one thing to have all of this rolling around inside his head, but something else again to say it out loud – even if he was alone. He straightened to his full height and stood at the closest thing to attention he could manage with his dodgy leg. He wasn't going into battle, but there was something soothing about falling into old habits.  It had worked, more or less, at the graveyard.

Right. Well, then …

He cleared his throat.

"If you were here right now, you'd call me an idiot, and you'd be right. I couldn't … no,  _ wouldn't _ admit to myself what I knew was true. Y—you might not have felt the same –  _ bugger _ , this is hard – but I don't think that would have ... mattered to me. At least you would know. At least there might have been the chance that you cared – no,  _ say _ it, you coward– might have been a chance that you  _ loved _ me, too. I asked you once for one more miracle, but you had already given it to me. You, Sherlock. You gave me  _ you _ . You let me into your life, and I am so sodding  _ grateful _ for that. You were my mirror. You showed me all that I had the potential to become, and guided me down that path. You changed my life. You made me ... happy. ' _ Us' _ made me happy, and I regret never telling you that. You were – are – a good man, the  _ best _ of men, and I m–miss you so much."

One breath. 

Two. 

John did not wipe away the tears.

It wasn't over; he wasn't healed.  Far from it, but he felt marginally better. The weight was still there, but he didn’t think he’d be crushed by it.  At least not tonight.  Maybe facing tomorrow wouldn't be so bloody awful.

Maybe.

Maybe would have to do.

Leaden gray clouds, heavy with rain still blanketed London, but dawn was coming on as John closed and latched the window. It didn't matter. He needed sleep. He'd put on some noise-cancelling headphones to block out the noise of the street, and with no Mrs. Hudson about, he really doubted he'd be disturbed, but he'd lock the flat anyway. The last thing he needed was to wake to find Mycroft lurking above him again. 

He wondered if Lestrade would arrest him for the murder of a minor government official trespassing on private property. A small chuckle popped into his mind at the pleasant notion.

Right.  Bed. Now. 

Grasping his cane, John turned toward the door … and felt his heart stop beating in his chest at the sight of the man filling the doorway.

"If I am a good man, John, it's because  _ you _ made me one."

Sherlock.

"And for the record, you're  _ not _ an idiot. At least not in this situation."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! They feed me! They feed us all. Please consider leaving a few.


	3. Chapter Three:  Looks on Tempests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off to London for a few days, so I thought I'd pop this up for you to enjoy. And I do hope you will enjoy it! With luck, come Friday, I'll be having a spot of breakfast at Speedy's.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought about this chapter. 
> 
> As always, my love to my beta, Springbok7. Any remaining errors are entirely mine.

## Chapter Three:  Looks on Tempests

* * *

 

An almost imperceptible buckling of the knees and an inaudible hitching of the breath were the only outward signs that betrayed John Watson's shock. Most people would have missed the tells, but, as had long since been established, Sherlock Holmes was _not_ most people.

"At some point, John, I'd rather think you might consider breathing again."

John's head jerked backward as Sherlock's voice snapped him back into awareness. His brow furrowed and he pursed his lips, searching for the words that would not come together in his mind.

"Wha … " he swallowed hard to push his voice back into its normal range. "You're not … What are you ... _why_ are you …"

"I should think that would be obvious, John. Who do you think brought you back from the Yard? Certainly not Mycroft. My brother has the bedside manner of a trout, as I'm sure you're aware, and Lestrade's not much better. He acted as though he'd never seen a PTSD flashback before. And unless you've taken up residence in my room – which you've not – or Mrs. Hudson has taken my name off of the lease – which she hasn't – then I _do_ still technically live here."

"Stop!" shouted John, confusion ringing clearly in his voice. "Just … just stop … just stop being _you_ for one minute, please."

Now it was Sherlock's brow that furrowed. "Stop being me?"

"I need to … catch up," John pleaded. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and across his face.

"Ah. Completely understandable under the circumstances, I think." Sherlock leaned his tall body against the doorframe and crossed his legs at the ankle. "By all means. Take whatever time you need."

John sat down slowly on the windowsill behind him, never feeling the lingering raindrops that seeped through the seat of his trousers. He was a soldier, damn it! He wouldn't embarrass himself by collapsing in front of Sherlock or by voicing the words that were screaming inside his head.

Not dead! Not Dead! NOTDEADNOTDEADNOTDEAD!

Sherlock seemed to hear them anyway.

"No, John. I'm not dead. I was in Lestrade's office earlier, and I'm here, with you, right now," the detective said, his voice soft, precise, and oddly sympathetic.

"Quiet!" John snapped. "Thinking!" he pointed at his head.

It was a command Sherlock understood and respected, so he stayed silent and observed as John sorted out the evidence.

From this distance, John looked nearly the same as he did all those months ago on the street in front of St. Bart's. Sherlock knew from closer inspection in the cab, however, that such was not the case. The wrinkles at his mouth and forehead had deepened; the healthy glow of his skin had turned to ash; dark circles under his eyes had far too permanent a look about them, and the eyes themselves were a flat blue that showed nothing of the lively sparkle Sherlock remembered. Sandy blond hair was shot through with more silver than gold, and John’s left hand trembled with a ferocity that echoed the man's inner turmoil.

As much as Sherlock wanted to blame Moriarty, alone, for all that John had suffered these long months, he couldn't. Atonement must not begin with a lie. _Moriarty's scheming set events in motion, but I made my own choices._ I _did this to John._

It had been a long and arduous task that had left Sherlock with his own traumas and scars, but he had finally vanquished the last of the threats to his friends. Now Sherlock was asking for forgiveness: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and now John. If the reaction of the first two to his resurrection indicated a trend – which he suspected it did – seeking absolution from John was going to be the hardest task of all. It was a strange concept for him, to be sure, but the thought of _not_ doing so was even more discomfiting; he wasn't sure why.

It was a vicious cycle.

"Molly," John said after several long moments. "That would explain the closed casket and why she wouldn't let me identify your body. 'Remember him as he was,' Molly said. Should've known better, seen through it, but I was too out of it to fight her," he admitted.

"Bicycle hit and run," Sherlock asserted, stepping fully into the sitting room. "I heard that you suffered a rather serious concussion when you fell, so it's understandable."

"It wasn't just the concussion."

Blue eyes met gray across the distance of the dimly lit room. "Mycroft identified your ... _the_ body, so he was in it from the beginning." Sherlock nodded, and John felt both more anger and a sudden compassion for the elder Holmes brother. Though the man dealt in secrets every day, it couldn't have been easy for Mycroft to keep _this_ one. "Who's in the casket? Homeless man?"

"Otherwise destined for a pauper's grave, yes." A corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted at his friend's deduction. The man really was getting – marginally – better at this.

"Who else knew?" John asked his voice low. "Lestrade?

"Not until a week ago."

John rose and crossed the room until he was mere inches from Sherlock. He glanced out the door to the staircase. "Mrs. Hudson's not just on holiday, is she?"

"No."

"Is she okay?"

"Of course!" Sherlock was offended by John's sudden accusatory tone.

"Just couldn't have her spoiling your grand entrance for me, though, could you?" John's voice had grown tight with anger.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he took a small step backward. He wasn't overly intimidated by the smaller man, but he had heard this tone in John's voice before, and it definitely fell into the category of 'Not a Bit Good.' Increased distance was simply a prudent action.

Unfortunately, the good doctor's haggard countenance belied his resolve and his speed, and it was but the matter of moments that Sherlock found first his jaw and then the back of his head exploding in pain. The first from John's fist; the second courtesy of the floor.

Flat on his back, Sherlock tried to focus on the cracks in the plaster ceiling, but the stars that danced across his field of vision made that impossible. His nose and lip were bleeding and something had broken loose inside his mouth. He leaned up and spat it out.

"You broke my favorite molar!" Sherlock accused, pointing at the small pool of blood and tooth on the floor next to him.

"Only _you_ would have a favorite molar," John growled, shaking out his right hand. "Bloody hell! I didn't think it was possible for your head to get any harder."

Sherlock tried to get back up, but the best he could manage was to roll over on his side and prop himself against the side of the sofa. He glared up at the doctor. "You hit me."

"Oh! Brilliant deduction, Sherlock!" Surprisingly, hurt cut through Sherlock at John's bitter comment. John saw it in his face, and a fair portion of his anger melted. "Here," he tossed Sherlock a handkerchief from his pocket. "You're bleeding all over the rug."

Sherlock pressed the pristine cloth – for John was nothing if not meticulous in his laundry habits – to his nose. "I'll get you some ice for that." Sherlock grasped his ankle before he could turn.

"We need to talk."

John regarded Sherlock for a long minute. Stay or go? Listen or ignore? Finally, he slumped down on the low table in front of the sofa and faced his friend. He had no more energy. He just couldn't keep up with the events that had his emotions spinning 180 degrees every few hours. "There's nothing to say, Sherlock."

"There is," the younger man insisted, sitting up a bit straighter. His grip switched to John's knee. His long fingers were strong yet tense, betraying that his own emotions were running more than a little high. "I have to explain –"

"You sacrificed yourself to protect me," John interrupted. "Oh, don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I may not be able to deduce things as quickly as you do, but I've had _a lot_ of time to think about how … about how you died."

"Tell me."

"Why? You're here. You're alive."

"Call it a teacher's curiosity to see how far his student has progressed in the interim."

There was a time when John would have bristled at the metaphor, but it really was the least of his concerns right now.

"Right." John took a deep breath and laid out before the master of the craft the trail of deductions that he had spent over a year putting together. "That night at the pool, Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of you. A very passionate threat, but a metaphorical one. If he had wanted you to die, he would have killed you the moment he was done toying with you, so he clearly didn't mean your physical heart. He wanted you to suffer. My attempt to force his hand by jumping him from behind turned his attention toward me. If I was willing to have myself blown up to save your life, what then might _you_ be willing to do for me?"

"Go on," Sherlock urged. There were a few gaps, but the path held true.

"It stood to reason that Moriarty kept us under constant surveillance after that. Irene Adler confirmed as much to you and Mycroft, or so you told me. Given that, it's reasonable to assume that Moriarty picked up on – " John stopped.

"Picked up on what?"

_Bollocks, man, he already heard you confess the whole thing. It's not going to get any more awkward than it already is._

"M-Moriarty likely picked up on my ... feelings for you," John said in a rush, trying not to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Hell, people from London to Dartmoor and back were able to see it, so why not _that_ nutter?”  He scrubbed his face with his hands before looking back at his friend.  “Anyway, after you recovered the Reichenbach and started attracting the attention of the press, I warned you to keep a low profile, and then when the press started to turn, you told me that you didn't care what others thought about you and couldn't understand why it bothered me. Ergo – "

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Enough! I'm an educated man with a medical degree. I am capable of using advanced vocabulary, thank you very much."

"Pray continue, Dr. Watson."

"Prat," John muttered under his breath and kicked Sherlock in the leg, pleased at the lanky bastard's groan of pain. " _Ergo,_ Sherlock Holmes would not commit suicide because he found himself in disgrace. No matter how Moriarty managed to spin the situation, you _never_ would have done that. There had to be another reason … or _three_ of them."

Sherlock frowned and nodded his head.

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John Watson, the only three people for whom Sherlock Holmes has shown any outward concern. The only ones he might dare call 'friend.' Moriarty threatened to kill us if you didn't kill yourself. But he died before you did – Molly's timeline indicated it wasn't by much – yet you still jumped. Therefore, the threat must have extended beyond Moriarty's direct control. A figurative 'dead-man's switch'. The assassins who moved onto Baker Street, perhaps."

"They and a handful of others kept in reserve," Sherlock confirmed. "With Moriarty dead, there was no way to call them off unless I …"

"Unless you jumped. You died … Except, you weren't really dead."  John’s tone was now colder than the room.

"John, there wasn't a choice. I'm sorr –"

" _Don't_ say it! Don't you bloody well say that you're sorry, Sherlock!" John's anger returned in full force. "Was I that much of a burden on you? Did I hold you back so _much_ that you couldn't trust me to help you find a way out of it?"

"Of course not, John. Why would you think that I'd – "

"Because you left me _behind_ ." John jumped up from the table and stalked around the room, the thump of his cane punctuating his words. "You sent me off on a fool's errand while you went to face your death alone! The genius and the maniac in a final duel to the death. Who will survive?! Anyone? No one?! Who blows his head off? Who jumps to his death? All _very_ dramatic, Sherlock!"

John loomed over him, every muscle vibrating with tension and anger and grief, and Sherlock realized that the effect of his 'death' on John had clearly been far worse than Mycroft had ever led him to believe.

"I thought that if I faced Moriarty alone –"

"No! You _didn't_ think. For once you just didn't _think_. You reacted, Sherlock. You thought you had all the pieces of the puzzle, but you can't out-reason a man for whom reason doesn't exist." John's voice had grown pleading, anguished in his attempt to make Sherlock understand.

"I took what action I deemed necessary to protect you and the others, and I've spent the last year and a half ensuring that Moriarty's network will never be a threat again. It didn't matter what happened to me."  A rare look of confusion sat on Sherlock’s face and he sounded bewildered.  

Though his leg protested the action, John knelt down next to his friend and grabbed his hand.

" _This_ is what matters, Sherlock, not just The Work." John shook their joined hands between them, squeezing even harder to indicate the weight of his words. " _We_ matter. You and me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and, yes, even Mycroft. A sociopath – even a high-functioning one – would _never_ do what you did for us. Too much sentiment. Too many _feelings_ ! No matter what you may think, no matter how you've tried to convince yourself otherwise, you're _not_ made of ice. I've seen it in your actions, and I heard it in your voice that day."

Sherlock paused to absorb John's words – both these and the ones he uttered when John thought he was alone. The detective was still conflicted about those declarations, but of one thing he was certain. "I couldn't permit you to become the victim of Moriarty's obsession with me," Sherlock leaned forward, closing the distance between them, his voice quiet yet urgent. "Not again."

It was the most natural thing in the world for John to lean his forehead against that of his friend, and when Sherlock did not pull away, he cupped the back of Sherlock's head with his free hand and, for a moment, simply let himself be comforted by the warmth, by the _life_ , he held in his hands.

"If nothing else, you are my friend, Sherlock.  And I am your partner. It's _both_ of us, or it's nothing," he whispered with a finality that shot straight to Sherlock's heart. He had never quite heard that insistent passion in John's voice before. "I know it's going to take time to convince you of the fact you're stronger with me helping you than keeping me out. Two minds working together – even one as horribly _ordinary_ as mine – will find a solution." He sighed. "But know this, and remember it.  I _can't_ go through that again."

John's hand slid to Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed before he struggled to his feet again and headed to the stairs that led to his room. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Maybe for the rest of the month." He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock who still sat on the floor. "Don't even _think_ of leaving this flat until I wake up. We're not done with this yet."

"I’m so ...  _so_ glad you’re home," Sherlock heard John say as he disappeared up the stairs.

The morning light, diffused by the curtains at the windows, illuminated the room, and the shadows that had filled the flat through the long night fled from the sun's gaze. Sherlock sat where he was long after he heard the bedroom door close and the creaking of the floor above fall silent, all the while evaluating the myriad ways in which he and John weren't "done with this yet."

His ultimate deduction? It was … good.

Quite a bit good, actually.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoyed this instalment. Please provide a comment if you enjoyed it. Kudos are always fabulous, but comments ... well, comments are love!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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